Day 241 of the 365 Days of Blogging

IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT, WE ALL STEP IN IT SOMETIME

OR

WRITING DOWN THE TRUTH IS A MATTER OF DUMB LUCK.

Let's qualify that right now. Every moralizing twit in this world brandishes the damned word "truth" like a sort of philosophical, theological, or sociological Excalibur that only they were capable of extracting from the stone in which it was trapped. That some of these barbarians go on to write books about their brand of truth, claiming it to be a "Universal" variety, is just further evidence of how close we still can be to the apes we diverged from. That apes don't produce volumes on truth is probably viable evidence of their superiority.

Truth is never universal. Each person, even those most intolerant of the tolerant - the secular humanists, interprets those things they see, hear, and feel through the filter of their personalities and prejudices. The only difference from one individual to the next is the severity of their myopia. Combine that with the fact that all of us, to one degree or another, are full of shit ninety-nine percent of the time, and truth becomes less abundant than common sense.

If you are a writer of any merit or honesty, you will realize that everything you are imparting to a reader is your own OPINION. That it has any truth to it is a personal matter between you, your id, ego, and the ubermensch who, like The Great and Powerful Oz, is hiding behind the curtains of your insecurities pulling levers and turning dials. To accomplish something of power, you need to do what the Wizard did, come out from behind the curtain and try to relate to the strengths and weaknesses of someone outside of your own skinny carcass. It usually works better if it's another human being, but that would involve NOT imagining yourself as the hero of your own fantasies. Therapy might help in that case.

So, don't sit down to write about the TRUTH of something. Instead, write about the feeling of something. Write about the struggle to get through one more day. Write about the long slow fall to the bottom. Write about the finger and soul shredding crawl back up from that pit. Don't write about what love means to a character. Instead, write what it feels like. Write the highs and lows, the daffy obsession and the depraved pain at its end. Write about the act of overcoming the adversities, yes, but better yet, have the character show us what it means.

Somewhere in this, you might find a note that plays long and clear in your conscious mind. This is the type of thing that could reach into another person's life to find a similar resonance. One that has the possibility of telling them a story with more meaning than diversion. You may accomplish this with no knowledge whatsoever that there was even a flea fart of a chance of pulling off a challenge that grandiloquent. But be careful, you might be asked at a reading or in a letter whether you knew you were going to touch someone in such a profound way and you'll have to perform the greatest song and dance of your career just to keep from disappointing that reader.

All of it's okay. We stumble into more shared emotion than we actually navigate our way towards. The truth part of it - well, it probably can be said that two or more people can share a common feeling about something. In that discovery they might feel there is community or bonding. I'll defer any stand on that. You see, every time I think I've got a handle on something that may be misconstrued as empirical truth, the world humbles me pretty damned quickly. Which is why I stay with the messy terrain of human emotion instead!

slouch caps.Waves and whistles (friends and ladies), nods to the heavies, KINGS of twelve square
blocks.It’s the hustle, above all
else, the moving and shaking, no roadmaps or manifestoes.It’s
brownstones on Broadway, tomorrow. The whole damned town, someday.Trying to get connected. In the car, and
back in thirty, half a C-note richer, or poorer, EVERYBODY owes, EVERYBODY pays.It’s ALL about the rep, have you got
the stones, try me on for size, whispered conversations, I’ll be back, no
destination.The longest journey,
covers the shortest distance, pennies pitched and dimes dropped, you EARN the stand-up name.Swirling figures are moving targets, harder
to hit, on the stoop, in the alley.WHERE am I?Graduate, to junkyard hotrods, the emperor’s rusty ride, bats in the
trunk, piece under the seat. Saturdays, tell the priest, EVERYTHING -
and nothing - make
an offering, buy some conscience.Move
out, come back, and swear off the life. Swear off swearing off, got to find the
rhythm.Singing doo-wop in the
drizzle.We can’t leave now, it all
might be coming - or not - but only suckers sleep.

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About Me

Boston born, Irish descent. Former special ops engineer. Artist, poet, writer, musician. Husband, father, grandfather and enjoying all three immensely. Traveled, educated, experienced but not overwhelmed by myself. I have my opinions and respect others so long as we can openly discuss them without believing that conversions are always necessary.